


There Are Reasons

by flinchflower



Series: Slash Me Twice [62]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Discipline, Hunters, M/M, Suggestion of parental discipine., Training, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 62: Table.   Sam actually stops a training session to tell John he’s too tired to continue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Are Reasons

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not for profit, simply a writing exercise. Herein lies Dean/Sam slash, in an AU timeline where John did not lose his life. John appears in parental context only. Follows in series from previous prompts, but stands alone if preferred.

Dean carefully backtracks, sneaking backwards around a corner. Only problem with his plan is the collision with his father, a solid smack into John’s broad chest. He catches Sam’s eyes shining out of the darkness, and he could really do without the smartass look on the kid’s face. He turns on his heel with a little flare, ignoring the fact that John intended to hold onto him.

“Dude, we’ve got to stop meeting this way,” he tosses off flippantly.

John reins in his temper. The last two hours, Dean’d been like this – flippant and easy, not really paying attention, and he had another thing coming when they got back to the cabin. “I’m not in the mood, Dean. Reset and run it again- what, Sam?”

San had shifted and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m done.”

“You’re what,” comes the incredulous question from John. He sucks in a deep breath, repressing an immediate urge to swat and steeling himself to see if he could lecture some sense into his flippant and now insubordinate sons, feeling near disoriented when Sam interrupts a second time.

Sam steps forward into the moonlight, a determined look on his face. “You’ve been after me to be honest about how I’m feeling. I’m tired and done in, and my control is next thing to slipping.” He waits uncomfortably for the fallout, shifting from foot to foot, frowning.

His father and older brother stand frozen with something akin to shock. Not to mention indecision. Winchesters stuck things out, got the job done, trained until they dropped – but both of them had been on Sammy’s case about that very thing for weeks now, even to the tune of disciplining the kid to prove how serious they were about it. Fortunately nothing fazed John Winchester for very long. Another deep breath, and he’s ready to manage the situation.

“Dean, gather up the gear, you’re on weapons duty tonight. Move it, boy. Sam, you’re with me.” As he speaks he mentally tallies the number of hours they’d been on the training course, weighs their performances against one another, against himself. A hunter had to learn to go against all odds when he was tired and injured, and training was the only thing that helped keep that at bay. Fine. He’ll work on building Sam’s stamina – dammit, he’ll have to walk softly with that, and he needs to analyze a few things to figure out the couple of weird mistakes Dean had made. For now, though, he focuses on his youngest son, who looks pretty close to fearful. Dean jogged off into the underbrush to retrieve the last weapons cache.

Sam walks quietly along beside his father, trying not to blush, eyes on the ground. John Winchester feels like shit, watching the kid. Too many times he’d been too hard on the boy. He doesn’t let go of the boy’s arm, though, the touch reassuring him that his son’s fine, that the trembling that marks utter exhaustion isn’t present and that Sam let him know in time. He walks his boy up to the car and opens the front passenger door, tucking the kid inside. An even more fearful look hits him when he climbs in himself. Shit.

“You leave your brother to me, you hear?” His voice is gruff, and the question startles the young man.

“I, yeah, Dad.” Sam’s tone is subdued, and John doesn’t like it.

“You so tired you need help?” He watches his son start again, a sign that Sam might be more tired than John thought initially.

“I… I don’t know, Dad.”

“Tell me what you do know.” It’s given as a command.

“I need to eat something and sleep.” The boy’s face stains a painful shade of red.

“We can take care of that. I asked you if you need help.”

“Maybe. After. I’m not sure yet.”

He can hear the boy’s hesitancy, how his son, usually so sure of everything, is unsure about this. He reminds himself that it has to be frustrating Sam as well.

“Good enough,” he says gruffly. “You need help, you come to me, not Dean, and if I find out you needed it and didn’t speak up…” The words trail off ominously, and Sam nods vigorously, finally reassuring John. “You bunk with me tonight. Your brother stays alone so he has some time to think things over.” The dark look in Sam’s eyes isn’t unexpected at that. No, the two of them have never dealt well with the other being disciplined, and this won’t be any exception. They both feel the car shift with the weight of the weapons bags being settled in the trunk, and Sam can feel Dean’s hesitancy when he sees Sam in the front seat next to their father before he slinks into the back. The drive back to the cabin is short and silent.

Sometimes Sam wonders how many of these cabins are scattered throughout the backwoods of North America, if there’s a requirement that has every hunter buying property, building one of the things, stocking it, and making arrangements for it to be kept up after their death. Or if they all belong to one guy, maybe, someone with money and time to spare. They’ve never asked. John will tell them when it’s time. He ducks under the lintel, wishing this one had a little more allowance in the doorframes.

“Sam. Clean up, lay down until I call you. I’ll put supper on, and Dean and I are gonna have a little chat.”

Sam flinches, but obeys, eager to clean up and eat something. Somewhere along the way a kind soul had taught John a number of different recipes for casseroles that could be frozen and reheated, and as bizarre as the word casserole sounded in conjunction with his father, it was far better than the mac and cheese and hotdogs they’d eaten as children. Then again, he had a vague memory of refusing to eat anything but hot dogs for a while. Dean of course would have been the perfect child, eating anything put before him. He grimaces at the thought, and blocked out the sounds filtering over the running water. The double hot water tank makes up for the short doorways, he thinks, though he’s not holding out hope that he can stay in the shower long enough to avoid the sounds of John spanking Dean. But he sure could try.

He’s more than faintly impressed with the fact that John hadn’t seemed angry in the least, that his father hadn’t even expressed an iota of irritation at him for throwing the towel in. No, it was more like his father was startled, and he’d had that quiet reserved air about him that was usually displayed whenever he was doing something that went against his usual nature, but understood he was doing the best thing for his boys. Something in Sam relaxes a little more under the hot water, and he sighs. Maybe Dad would talk to him about it later, if he was carefully polite about the matter. Worth a try.

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack: Simple Plan - Welcome to My Life


End file.
